Sir Richard Brook had an effortless, urbane and immaculate appearance which had doubtless been honed over the years and occurred now on a daily basis with little or no thought. He was wearing a three-piece blue pinstripe when he met Cross in his grand Whitehall office. The stripe was a chalky one and Cross noticed it was an English drape cut. He wore a white shirt with the cuffs protruding just the right amount from below the jacket to display his cufflinks. He wore a woven silk tie, blue with the smallest of white dots.
‘Anderson and Sheppard?’ asked Cross.
‘A man who knows his suits. Yes, it is,’ said Brook standing up at his imposingly large mahogany desk and offering his hand, which Cross ignored. This didn’t put the man out at all as he magically morphed the gesture into an indication that they should sit at the large leather sofas on the distant side of the acreage of his office. It was as if he hadn’t been offering a handshake at all.
‘From afar. A man who certainly can’t afford bespoke tailoring. Are they your main tailor?’ Cross had a genuine interest in the traditional arts, whether it was the construction of church organs or that of a fully bespoke suit.
‘Mostly. But I also use Ritchie Charlton if I want something with a more contemporary look. I could introduce you if you like.’
This was a classic example of someone trying to put someone else at their ease. This was Brook telling Cross they were equals. That he should not be put out by the vast grandeur of his office. That said, if the square footage of the office and the view from the window were indicators of seniority or success, then Brook was at the top of his particular tree.
‘As I said, beyond my budget and possibly inappropriate. A detective in bespoke tailoring.’
‘I’ve ordered tea and biscuits. You are this afternoon’s excuse for me to indulge.’
‘I’m surprised a man in your position needs an excuse,’ observed Cross.
‘Well of course I don’t. That was a joke, Sergeant.’
Cross now became aware of a strong waft of cologne coming from the man opposite him. He recognised it immediately as he himself wore Penhaligon’s Blenheim Bouquet from time to time. He decided against commenting on it, thinking it might make him sound like a Sherlock Holmes wannabe showing off his deductive skills.
‘The purpose of your visit, Sergeant?’
‘Sandy Moreton. You and he have a long association,’ Cross began.
‘We do. I can’t seem to get rid of him.’
‘Well, it seems as though you might have succeeded finally. Was that the purpose of the inquiry? To get rid of him?’
‘No, that was careless phrasing. Let’s put it this way: Sandy Moreton is my Widmerpool,’ Brook replied by way of explanation.
‘Anthony Powell’s A Dance to the Music of Time,’ said Cross.
‘You’ve read it?’
‘I have not. But I’m aware of the character of Widmerpool and what he has come to symbolise. That’s quite the indictment of Moreton.’
‘This conversation is confidential, yes?’ Brook enquired.
‘If you wish it to be, yes.’
‘It has to be. I’m a civil servant. Mr Moreton was a Member of Parliament.’
‘Was, thanks to your report. Your mutual antipathy goes right back to your schooldays.’
‘It does, as everyone now knows. Thanks to him. He can’t stop going on about it.’
‘There was a fight at the school, between the two of you. Is that correct?’ Cross asked.
‘Yes.’
‘And he came off the worst.’
‘He did. Even though he boxed for the school. I gave him a good whooping,’ Brook corrected him.
‘What was the fight about?’ asked Cross.
‘I can’t remember. It must’ve been about something. But I think it more likely just came out of a general resentment among the schoolboy population of his sense of entitlement. He was the headmaster’s son and wanted everyone to know it.’
‘The entire school was beaten for that fight. Is that correct?’
‘Yes.’ Brook laughed at this. ‘It was a bit of an “I’m Spartacus” moment. I wasn’t given a chance to admit to it. It was a rather wonderful moment of rebellion. Everyone was beaten except for Sandy. The alleged victim.’
‘It seems like an extreme measure.’
‘Not for Moreton senior.’
‘Did his methods have a lasting effect on you?’ Cross asked.
‘Good lord no. It was so long ago.’
‘Not everyone feels that way.’
‘Ah, you’ve spoken to Maurice and his safe space board,’ Brook replied.
‘I didn’t know he called it that.’
‘He doesn’t officially. But he says it so often it’s become a kind of nickname for it. However, I do think, and I’ve said this to him, that they really need to move on. It’s a bit pathetic. Yes, it was terrible. But it was so long ago. Just deal with it.’
‘One question I’ve been meaning to ask. Didn’t the teachers object to his methods?’ Cross asked.
‘Sometimes, yes. Matrons, the women who looked after us at school, left constantly. It was like a revolving door. I heard from one recently who got in touch. She told us she was fired by Moreton for taking him on about the beatings. She’d just cleaned up the bleeding buttocks of another child, had had enough and told him so. Others just resigned, apparently. You know he had names for them. His canes, Mussolini, Genghis, Roosevelt were the ones I remember. Just weird,’ he went on.
‘Mozart,’ Cross volunteered.
‘Yes, that’s right,’ said Brook who, Cross thought, seemed to be becoming a little reflective. His speech had become slightly hesitant and he rubbed his hands together, as if to comfort himself.
‘What about other teachers?’ asked Cross. Brook thought about this for a while before answering. If he was thinking about whether to answer at all, or just about what he was going to say, Cross couldn’t tell.
‘Moreton had a stripe system. If you misbehaved or needed punishing a teacher could give you a stripe. You’d be given a chit and it would be written in a book in the staffroom. You then had to go give Moreton the chit and ask politely for a beating. Which you then duly got. He didn’t even want to know what it was for, most of the time. But the thing was, you couldn’t take the stripe to him till the end of the day, after five. So, if you were given it in the morning you had it hanging over you all day, with this sick feeling at the pit of your stomach. It was a nightmare.’
‘Why was it called a stripe?’ asked Cross. ‘I always thought stripes were something you earned.’
‘Which is exactly right. You earned your beating. But they were named after the stripes that were left on your backside. Great big red weals that would go dark blue then yellow.’
‘And the teachers went along with this?’
‘Some, not all. In fact, when they realised how dreadful the beatings were they stopped giving out stripes and gave detention instead. As fewer and fewer boys went to Moreton and he saw more and more of us in detention, he banned it. Abolished detention. It was a stripe or nothing.’
‘He sounds deranged.’
‘Deranged and drunk.’ He looked down as he thought about it all.
‘Are you upset?’ asked Cross as he couldn’t tell.
‘I was nine, Sergeant. You were prevented from seeing your parents for the first half of term, which could be as long as seven or eight weeks. We were entirely at the man’s mercy.’
‘Did the teachers leave?’ asked Cross.
‘A lot of them, yes. He replaced them with retired army officers, most of whom saw nothing wrong with the occasional beating. But even some of them had a problem with it, I think.’
‘Sandy Moreton was made head boy rather than you,’ said Cross steering the conversation back to Moreton junior.
‘Well, firstly there was no guarantee it was mine for the taking. That might have been the pervading popular opinion at the time. But it was more of an assumption. Others’ assumption, I should point out,’ he said and looked at his watch. ‘Sergeant, you do realise this meeting is scheduled for just the one hour?’
‘I do. Were you angry about not being head boy?’
‘Not at all. It was such an act of blatant nepotism it didn’t really matter.’
‘How did you feel about him being able to beat other boys?’
‘Well, it was an appalling thing for Moreton to impose on his son. Can you imagine anything worse for your popular standing? To be fair to Sandy, he never beat anyone.’
‘He seems to claim that he did.’
‘Because he’s trying to be controversial. It’s simply not true. Typical of him not to see the upside of refusing to do it. But that’s Sandy. Say one thing he’ll immediately say another. Everything has to be a battle, a confrontation,’ said Brook.
‘You were at senior school together. You did become head boy there.’
‘I did.’
‘Did you come across him much?’
‘Sure, but we were in different boarding houses. I took some classes with him. But other than boxing he was pretty hopeless at sport, so that was about it, really, in terms of paths crossing.’
‘Then you were both at Oxford.’
‘Correct.’
‘One thing interested me. He was a year below you at university, yet you were in the same year at school. Why was that?’ Cross asked.
‘Simple. He became a bit of an academic mess in the senior school. We were both scholars going in from All Saints. But it seemed without his father’s presence and encouragement, albeit in the form of a regular beating, he went to pieces academically. Flunked his GCSEs quite impressively. Then did moderately all right in his A levels. But not good enough for Oxbridge which his father was obsessed with. A bit like my mother, to be honest.’
‘So how did he get into Oxford?’
‘A number of factors, really. He attended a crammer in London to improve his grades,’ replied Brook.
‘The crammer his father ran?’ asked Cross who already knew the answer. He noticed a slight hesitation and a catch in Brook’s voice when he answered.
‘Correct. His father got the grades out of him at the crammer. He also knew people at Oxford. You couldn’t call them friends. Moreton wasn’t very popular, even in academic circles.’
‘How do you know that? You’re not in academic circles yourself, so how did you find out?’ Cross pressed.
‘I can’t remember now,’ Brook replied with the first evasive answer of the day. ‘But his father pulled a few strings, identified a subject that was easier to get in with and a college that was short of applications in it.’
‘Which was?’ asked Cross.
‘Divinity.’
‘I thought he read Philosophy, Politics and Economics.’
‘Changed after the first year. He always neglects to say that he didn’t get in on PPE, which is one of the most difficult subjects to get into Oxford to read,’ Brook said a little scathingly.
‘That must’ve rankled,’ Cross suggested.
‘It’s the way of the world, Sergeant. I’ve had to put up with a lot more egregious abuses of position in my career than a father helping his son get into Oxbridge.’
‘Why did you give up hockey at university?’
Brook eyed Cross up before he decided how to answer.
‘I had my blue,’ he answered.
‘So why not cricket or football? Two other sports you excelled at.’
‘Not good enough.’
‘But why boxing?’
‘I just felt like it was something I would be good at.’
‘Nothing to do with the fact that Sandy Moreton was on the team.’
‘Absolutely not,’ Brook said unconvincingly.
‘Did being teammates make things a little more amicable between the two of you?’
‘No.’
‘Bob Richmond said,’ Cross consulted his notebook, ‘that you’d told him you took up boxing so you could “beat the shit out of Moreton legitimately and on a regular basis”.’
Brook laughed. ‘Did I? I must’ve been drunk. I don’t recall that.’
‘He was president of the union.’
‘Only because the woman who was supposed to be president that year came down with glandular fever. Look, I don’t know where this is all going. But no, I didn’t like the man. I didn’t join the boxing club because he was in it, I’m not that petty. In truth, I liked the sound of being a boxing blue. But did I enjoy being given the chance to hit him when sparring? Absolutely. He was more loathsome at Oxford than school. Always showing off. Wanting to be the centre of attention. Much like now. Not a lot has changed,’ Brook said, a little more animated now.
‘You entered the civil service and he went into the City. It was another decade before your paths crossed again,’ Cross quoted from his notes.
‘Well, I wouldn’t go that far,’ Brook pushed back.
‘The hedge fund report.’
Brook studied the detective for a moment and realised that the man had done his homework.
‘I was neither the instigator nor the author of that report,’ he replied slowly.
‘Even so, it cost Moreton his job and you were one of the accredited contributors,’ Cross pointed out.
‘I have to say I really don’t understand what you’re after here, Sergeant,’ Brook said.
Cross made no response. It made no difference to him what Brook felt and as he hadn’t been asked a question, he simply sat there and said nothing.
‘All right, full disclosure. I hadn’t been aware of Moreton since I left Oxford. He was out of my orbit, my social circle, my work. I didn’t know Moreton worked at KBC until I started working on the report. Something I was assigned to do, by the way. Not something I volunteered for. But it was natural I would be asked, as the department I worked in at the time had hedge funds within its purview. As it happens my work on the report didn’t cover Moreton’s work whatsoever. I cannot take any credit for his resignation, or more likely sacking. That course of action wasn’t a recommendation of the report. It was taken independently of it by the company.’
‘Did Moreton make contact with you after the publication? After he was sacked?’
‘Not directly, but he started making statements complaining personal agendas were behind the report. All of which was untrue.’
‘Then you meet again when he becomes a minister in your department. How did you feel about that?’ asked Cross.
‘To be honest with you, it simply confirmed to me how the most appallingly mediocre and unqualified people can succeed in politics.’
‘That seems a surprising verdict on a world in which you work and have spent the majority of your life in,’ Cross commented.
‘I work in government, Sergeant. I am a civil servant. I do not indulge in politics,’ Brook answered a little grandly.
‘So, you now found yourself in a position of having to work for him.’
‘In effect.’
‘How was that?’
‘No different to working for a lot of the third-rate individuals over the years. On a personal level, however, it was difficult to accept initially. But my job is to put my personal feelings to one side.’
Cross made a note, then turned a page in his notebook. After he carefully read what was written on it, he looked up.
‘The bullying inquiry,’ he said.
‘Yes,’ sighed Brook.
‘From all that you’ve said about Sandy Moreton and with the history between the two of you, it would be easy to view the report and its conclusions as some form of retribution,’ said Cross.
‘DS Cross, you told my secretary that you were coming here to discuss the murder of my former headmaster. Why? I have no idea. But I have made time in my incredibly busy day to talk to you. What, may I ask, does any of this have to do with the murder of AFM?’
‘You have granted me an hour which I will not exceed. How I decide to utilise that hour for the purposes of my investigation is entirely up to me, Mr Brook.’
‘Even so—’
‘Would you prefer to continue this conversation back at my unit in Bristol? A six hour round trip?’ Cross asked.
‘No, of course not,’ replied Brook, sensibly deciding to stop complaining.
‘How did the inquiry and the subsequent report into Moreton’s behaviour come into being?’ Cross asked.
‘I take full responsibility for it all. I like to think I run an open and fair-minded department. That if any misconduct occurs people feel they can come right to the top and report without any splash back on them or their career. Rumours had started swirling around Moreton’s conduct within days of his arrival which was, to say the least, unusual. It wasn’t long before two of them landed on my desk. By then I had seen several examples of his unacceptable behaviour with my own eyes. Yelling at junior civil servants. Tearing up papers that people had been up all night to get ready for him, theatrically, in front of the whole office. I wondered whether my relationship with him was the reason for it. That he was demonstrating his power for my benefit. But a few calls to other places he’d worked in all confirmed a similar pattern of behaviour.’
‘Did you talk to him about it in private?’ asked Cross.
‘I did on several occasions. But I think he felt he was able to do exactly as he liked and he sort of revelled in it.’
‘Were you ever subject to it?’
‘Oh yes, to all the usual ministerial tirades about people not doing their jobs properly, not being briefed properly when he had, but just hadn’t paid attention. About the civil service obstructing the proper running of the country. Constant references to the Circumlocution Office from Little Dorrit, not that I believe the man has ever read a page of Dickens. The final straw was when a civil servant showed Moreton a report on his iPad in my office. Moreton was well known for wanting everything printed. Moreton took the iPad, screamed at the young woman and hurled it at the wall.’
‘What happened then?’ asked Cross thinking secretly that he had some sympathy for Moreton’s preference, if not his behaviour.
‘I adjourned the meeting and spoke with him again. I told him there was no room for that kind of behaviour in my department and that I would not only report it, but would be suggesting an official inquiry into his behaviour.’
‘What was his response?’ asked Cross.
‘He had that same smug, entitled look he had as a twelve-year-old boy. A look that said he was untouchable. He told me to do whatever I wished. He was a minister of the crown and could behave as he liked. But this time he didn’t have his father’s protection as headmaster. I think he felt he had the PM’s. But he was wrong.’
‘How did you feel about his eventual resignation and recall?’
‘I was glad he’d been found out. Relieved it was all over. Happy that we’d demonstrated that such behaviour was unacceptable in government, whoever you might be. But also, that it showed complaints would be listened to and acted upon. I hoped it would discourage such behaviour and encourage others to come forward, if they had a concern without worrying about a black mark appearing against them. I also think Parliament is better off without him marring its benches.’
Cross found himself thinking about Warner as he listened to this sentiment and feeling unsure that the same could be said about the police.
‘What was Moreton’s reaction?’
‘Well, it’s been well documented in the press. I’m sure you’ve read the coverage.’
‘I meant to you personally. Have you heard from him?’
‘Oh yes. He confronted me in the street in Whitehall. Completely orchestrated. He had a trail of cameras and press behind him like some kind of media Pied Piper. It’s on YouTube. He was furious. Held me personally to blame. Announced to the press that I was the weasel, I think he said, or the quisling, I can’t remember which, behind the witch hunt. As with most bullies in life, he was looking for excuses and deflection.’
‘But the man’s political career is over,’ Cross pointed out.
‘Oh, it is, and his character has been fully exposed. I don’t think his next step will be an easy one.’
Cross nodded thoughtfully.
‘One thing has surprised me with regard to his father’s murder. Why hasn’t he used it for more political capital, more media exposure? Gained the public sympathy. I would’ve expected that of him,’ observed Brook.
‘I think he did at the beginning,’ Cross remarked.
‘True, but since the “not guilty” verdict at the trial he’s been unusually quiet.’
Cross thought about this. It was indeed true.
‘I would’ve expected him to launch a full-on assault on the ineptitude of the police. About the need for justice in this country. He’s always so quick to point the finger at people. But not this time.’
‘Where were you on the ninth of September this year?’
‘September the ninth. Was that the night of the murder?’ Brook asked.
‘No, a couple of weeks before.’
‘Let me check,’ he said, walking over to the computer on the corner of his desk. ‘Oh yes. I took a long weekend that weekend.’
‘Did you go away?’
‘I did not.’
‘Were you in London?’
‘I was.’
‘Did you leave London for any reason?’
‘I did not.’ Brook looked at his watch. Cross had no need to. He knew he had just over five minutes left.
‘The crammer Sandy Moreton attended to get his grades for Oxford, run by his father,’ Cross began.
‘Yes,’ Brook answered enquiringly.
‘Is that the same crammer your brother attended?’ Cross consulted his notes and looked up. ‘Adam?’
For the first time Brook looked discomfited. He leant forward with his elbows on the desk as if unsure what to do with himself, but confident that this posture normally exuded authority. But this time it was wrapped in a cloak of uncertainty as if he was unsure what to do with himself. Whether he should get up and go over, stand to assert himself and bring the meeting to a close or just stay where he was. He decided on the latter.
‘It was.’
‘And was it before or after he sat his exams that he took his own life?’
‘Before. Three weeks before.’
‘Was it expected?’ Cross asked.
Brook sighed then laughed in a puzzled, resigned way and shook his head all at the same time.
‘Um, no. I mean, had it been in any way expected I’d like to think one of us would’ve stepped in and tried to help.’
‘Were you aware he was unhappy?’
‘Yes, of course.’
‘Why was he there? His grades were good enough for university.’
‘Because they weren’t good enough for Oxbridge.’
‘And your father sent him there despite everything you’d told him about All Saints.’
‘It was my mother, actually. I come from a very matriarchal family. My father married money, my mother always said, a little unkindly. She believed she’d married below her station in life, for love. Made her the romantic heroine in her eyes. I adored her, but boy, was she a tough old thing. She was obsessed with both of us going to Oxbridge. There was simply no point in going anywhere else in the UK if we wanted a proper university education. It was either Oxbridge or the States, for her.’
‘He was four years younger than you?’
‘Correct.’
‘Why was he sent to All Saints after your experience there?’
‘My mother didn’t listen to either of us. Or she did listen, just didn’t believe us. Because let’s face it, it was pretty extreme. She thought on the whole Moreton’s methods, whatever they were, had stood me in good stead for life, so there was no debate in her mind. Adam had to go to the crammer where that bastard tortured poor Adey. There’s no other word for it. Beat the shit out of him all over again. At seventeen, can you believe the humiliation? You’re beginning to feel like you’re growing up and suddenly you’re a nine-year-old on the end of a beating again. If boys were troublesome at the crammer, I mean not all of them were as easy to bully as boys between the ages of seven and thirteen, AFM just told the parents to withdraw them, or he expelled them. It was all about keeping the overall grades up.’
‘And did they?’
‘Some did. Remember, just being there was an act of despair on the part of the parents. But Moreton’s results spoke for themselves. He succeeded in improving grades, he bullied the boys into academic excellence, or rather excellence at sitting exams.’
‘Your brother hanged himself,’ Cross stated baldly.
‘He did.’ Brook grimaced. The pain of the memory obviously still keen. ‘Can I ask, how is this relevant to Moreton’s murder?’
‘Do you blame Alistair Moreton for Adam’s death?’
‘Oh, I see. Of course I fucking do,’ Brook answered with force. The use of the expletive seemed so out of keeping with this man, his suit, his perfectly cut and combed hair, his carefully put together demeanour, the surroundings they were in. Cross looked at his watch.
‘My time is up,’ he announced leaving his chair and walking towards the door. He stopped and turned before he opened it. He’d spotted a photograph among a number of framed pictures on the window behind the desk of Brook with, presumably, his wife and a dog.
‘Do you own a dog, Sir Richard?’
‘I do,’ the mandarin replied, looking at the photograph fondly.
Cross didn’t need to ask what breed the dog was. He already knew.
It was a Rhodesian Ridgeback.